winter boots and a chair at the kitchen table. The blue house was my home, and Grandma the woman waiting there for me, and I guess I could have loved her like a mother had it not been for the occasional whirlwind visits from Dianne, my real mother, the intense, unpredictable, dangerous, and exotic teen with the fast temper, smoker’s breath, kohl-rimmed eyes, and backroom broken-heart-in-barbed-wire tramp stamp, the girl who showed up unannounced and destroyed our peace, rummaged through Grandma’s purse for money, and strode around like she owned the place.
At first her visits unsettled me, left me nervous, angry, and strangely excited, but after a while, on those few occasions when she swept me up and sat me on her lap, left sticky, strawberry-scented lip gloss kisses on my face and fruity alcohol exhales in my nostrils, there was a stirring in my heart that made me brave and full of longing, made me plant shy kisses on her cheek, wind my arms around her neck, and bury my face in her shaggy, dyed-black hair, wanting to stay that way forever.
But the moment I gave in and clung she would withdraw and disentangle me, ignoring my cries to stay, tugging free of my stubbornly entwined arms, sometimes with the help of Candy, who didn’t care if the jagged edges of her bad French tips scratched my skin or her cheap bracelets caught in my hair, and finally, impatiently, telling me to stop being so fucking needy and shoving me back at my grandmother.
I’d be upset for days after she left, having stomachaches, snapping at Grandma, bursting into tears for no apparent reason. I wanted my mother, then I didn’t, then I did again. As I got older, I couldn’t understand why I didn’t see her more, why she didn’t live with me like other mothers did with their kids, why I couldn’t be with her.
When I asked that question on one of Grandma’s good days, she would say something like, “Because she can’t take care of you right now, Sayre, and besides, I would be so lonely if you weren’t here. You don’t want Grandma to be lonely, do you?”
On her dark days, when she was sunk in the murk of too much bitterness and coffee brandy, the answer would be more like, “If being here is so bad, then sure, go ahead, go pack your things and live with your mother. Make her take care of her responsibilities. See how she likes it. By all means, go ahead and go.” And when, hesitant, I said, “But I don’t know where she lives,” my grandmother gave a rude snort and said, “Well, that makes two of us, so I guess you’ll just have to stay here until she decides to come for you, and I don’t see that happening anytime soon. Do you?”
The truth was no, because only three times did my mother and Candy—always Candy, too—ever come and take me away with them for the weekend.
Three times, in seven years.
I shouldn’t have remembered that first time, given that I was not yet three, but I did remember parts of it, vividly. Grandma Lucy added to the story later, and at some point I heard my mother and Candy reminiscing, but there were fragments of that day that nobody knew but me.
My mother and Candy had hooked up with a couple of older guys, and thanks to good weather, a little gas money, and the rush of some kick-ass meth, they decided to head down to the Jersey shore. I don’t know why my mother thought I should come along. Maybe she felt it was time to show me off, or maybe she wanted the guy she was seeing to realize what a great little family the three of us could be.
I remember crying at being pulled away from Grandma Lucy, and being wedged in the backseat between Candy and the second guy, who stunk of garlic. I remember Candy feeding me soapy-tasting beer to shut me up, and later waking up alone on a blanket in the sand, terrified by the roaring ocean and the seagulls swooping over my head, being hungry, thirsty, and nauseous, sweating and screaming and getting sand in my mouth and in my eyes, pushing myself up and
At first her visits unsettled me, left me nervous, angry, and strangely excited, but after a while, on those few occasions when she swept me up and sat me on her lap, left sticky, strawberry-scented lip gloss kisses on my face and fruity alcohol exhales in my nostrils, there was a stirring in my heart that made me brave and full of longing, made me plant shy kisses on her cheek, wind my arms around her neck, and bury my face in her shaggy, dyed-black hair, wanting to stay that way forever.
But the moment I gave in and clung she would withdraw and disentangle me, ignoring my cries to stay, tugging free of my stubbornly entwined arms, sometimes with the help of Candy, who didn’t care if the jagged edges of her bad French tips scratched my skin or her cheap bracelets caught in my hair, and finally, impatiently, telling me to stop being so fucking needy and shoving me back at my grandmother.
I’d be upset for days after she left, having stomachaches, snapping at Grandma, bursting into tears for no apparent reason. I wanted my mother, then I didn’t, then I did again. As I got older, I couldn’t understand why I didn’t see her more, why she didn’t live with me like other mothers did with their kids, why I couldn’t be with her.
When I asked that question on one of Grandma’s good days, she would say something like, “Because she can’t take care of you right now, Sayre, and besides, I would be so lonely if you weren’t here. You don’t want Grandma to be lonely, do you?”
On her dark days, when she was sunk in the murk of too much bitterness and coffee brandy, the answer would be more like, “If being here is so bad, then sure, go ahead, go pack your things and live with your mother. Make her take care of her responsibilities. See how she likes it. By all means, go ahead and go.” And when, hesitant, I said, “But I don’t know where she lives,” my grandmother gave a rude snort and said, “Well, that makes two of us, so I guess you’ll just have to stay here until she decides to come for you, and I don’t see that happening anytime soon. Do you?”
The truth was no, because only three times did my mother and Candy—always Candy, too—ever come and take me away with them for the weekend.
Three times, in seven years.
I shouldn’t have remembered that first time, given that I was not yet three, but I did remember parts of it, vividly. Grandma Lucy added to the story later, and at some point I heard my mother and Candy reminiscing, but there were fragments of that day that nobody knew but me.
My mother and Candy had hooked up with a couple of older guys, and thanks to good weather, a little gas money, and the rush of some kick-ass meth, they decided to head down to the Jersey shore. I don’t know why my mother thought I should come along. Maybe she felt it was time to show me off, or maybe she wanted the guy she was seeing to realize what a great little family the three of us could be.
I remember crying at being pulled away from Grandma Lucy, and being wedged in the backseat between Candy and the second guy, who stunk of garlic. I remember Candy feeding me soapy-tasting beer to shut me up, and later waking up alone on a blanket in the sand, terrified by the roaring ocean and the seagulls swooping over my head, being hungry, thirsty, and nauseous, sweating and screaming and getting sand in my mouth and in my eyes, pushing myself up and
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